


Touch

by theonsfavouritetoy



Series: A Song of Our Own (Until Springtime) [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post GOT, Sharing a Bed, still Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-05 12:10:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17918555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonsfavouritetoy/pseuds/theonsfavouritetoy
Summary: “I see.” Something like a smile flickers over Jon’s face. “You and your finery, Greyjoy. Always dressed in silk. Some things never change, hm?”





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Good morning! Part 4 of ASOIAF Rarepair Week for the prompt: Silk // Fur

“Stop fretting, Theon. Are you certain you’re warm enough?”

Theon nods, avoiding Sansa’s scrutinizing gaze. The water is very hot, just as hot as it always used to be. He’s in it up to his ears, body completely submerged, trying to relax. He’s always loved the hot pools. If only he were alone, without Sansa there to see him, his shame. But if he can’t have even her see him, how should he ever be brave enough for Jon?

“He will send me away,” he mutters, flinching when she pours water over his head to get the soap out. “He will be disgusted.”

She doesn’t answer, just starts humming a vaguely familiar tune, one Theon hasn’t heard for many years. Her hands in his hair feel nice. He knows he can trust her. She would never hurt him. Jon wouldn’t hurt him either, but he might send him away. 

The godswood, what’s left of it, is not as cold as the rest of Winterfell, there’s no wind and a strange silence, as if it were set in another realm. Maybe it’s the remains of the weirwood, the Old Gods providing them with a place of peace even after their symbol has been burned to a stump. 

Still, it is cold enough to chase away the warmth of the water in the few seconds it takes him to get dressed in the clothes Sansa had gotten him from gods know where. They’re fine, seeming not too worn. Breeches of deerskin, soft and fitting his thin frame, a dark grey tunic of silk, a heavy cloak adorned with white pelt, as white as his hair. 

It is important he looks his best, as little as that is. Sansa smoothes down the folds of the cloak, looking at him with an encouraging smile. “There,” she says, “handsome as ever.”

Theon smiles back carefully, grateful for the lie. He won’t ever look like Theon Greyjoy again, but at least he can look clean and well-dressed. He wonders if it will be enough, if it will serve the intended purpose. Maybe Jon will be alright if he doesn’t see what’s underneath. What isn’t. 

He goes to him later that day, waiting for the smith to leave the king’s chambers. He looks as if he’d been crying when he passes Theon in the hallway. Jon isn’t crying, but his face is drawn and haggard, deep lines carved next to his mouth. He looks tired, older than his years. He looks like Ned Stark. 

“Jon,” Theon greets apprehensively. He never knows what to expect, despite sharing the king’s bed every night now. There’s still so much unsaid, so many insecurities. Jon never touches him. Theon wants him to. 

“Is it night time already?” Jon asks absentmindedly. “I am so sick of this room. I am sick of lying in bed. I’m alright. I want to help.”

“What, swing an axe like your friend and open your wounds again?” Theon shakes his head. “We don’t have a maester, not until Tarly comes back.” If he comes back.

“I had a raven from Sam. He has a family to care for now, a wife and son, his mother and his sister. He has his own castle to look after. I told him to stay where he is.”

Down south it is as cold as it is here, the whole of Westeros is frozen. But Tarly’s castle is still standing as it was, untouched by war and dragons. Maybe Jon should go there, to someone who can look after him better than they can. Theon knows he’ll never leave. 

“Why don’t you come in?” Jon still seems deep in thought, not looking at Theon. “You must be cold.”

“I’m alright.” Theon takes a deep breath, pushing his cloak back. Jon finally looks up and Theon smiles, careful to keep his mouth closed. He needs to look as appealing as possible. “Sansa found me some new clothes.”

“I see.” Something like a smile flickers over Jon’s face. “You and your finery, Greyjoy. Always dressed in silk. Some things never change, hm?”

But other things have to change. Slowly Theon approaches the bed, sitting down on the edge. He needs to be brave. He needs to do this. He holds out his arm, lets a gloved hand stroke over the silk. 

“It’s so soft.” A deep breath. “Here, touch it.”

He can feel Jon looking at him but he’s unable to lift his gaze to confirm this. The silence is grating, an endless minute until he feels a gentle touch to his arm. Theon braves a look at Jon’s hand stroking the silk, warmth seeping through the thin fabric. 

“Very soft,” Jon says at length, “and cool. You should wear something warmer.”

Theon can feel desperation well up in his chest. However can he tell Jon what it is he wants? Hints won’t do, Jon has always been rather oblivious, and right now he has other things on his mind than this. Theon needs to show him. 

“Here,” he mumbles, heart beating fast as he takes Jon’s hand and places it on his thigh, well away from the nothing. “This is the finest deerskin I’ve seen in a long time.”

Jon’s hand is motionless, heavy, it feels so good where it is Theon wants to cry. His own hand is trembling as he slowly moves it over Jon’s arm, not daring to look up, to see how this is received. 

“Theon.” Jon’s voice is careful, quiet. “What is the meaning of this?”

Theon cannot answer, cannot form a single one of the questions lingering in his thoughts all the time now. What am I to you? Why did you take my hand? Why did you let me kiss you? Why don’t you ever touch me now? The answer to the last question seems obvious. How could Jon want it, when he knows what lies beneath? 

“Look at me.”

Theon obeys the command of his king, lifting his gaze to meet Jon’s. His dark eyes are worried. Confused. Pitying. Theon wants to scream. The battle is lost before it has started, and something in him snaps. 

“I could be good for you. Let me be good for you, Jon, please, I’ll do my best to make you feel good, please…”

He leans forward, hands gliding beneath the furs, searching for Jon and finding him, warm, always so warm, so alive, his wrists are snatched and Jon holds him still, trapping him. Rejecting him and what he offers. 

“Theon, you’re shivering.”

It is true. From the cold, the panic, the knowledge of not being good enough once again. No one will ever want him, no one will ever need him, not Jon, not like Theon needs him. He curls up into himself, fighting back the urge to mutter nonsense, freak, weak… 

The world spins and Theon is on his back, heavy furs draped over him, a warm hand on his chest. Jon’s voice is filling his ears but the words make no sense, Theon doesn’t want to listen, all the things Jon is telling him, why this cannot be. 

“Theon, listen to me!” 

Another command this time, and Theon has no choice but to obey. 

“Your grace.”

“You can’t scamper around in these thin clothes. You need to stay warm. I don’t want you to freeze to death just because… Theon, none of this is necessary.”

Of course it isn’t. No silk in the world could ever hide the horror he’s become. 

“It’s not as if… Winter is still here. We have to survive. Now is not the time.”

Theon shakes his head. Now and never. They will all die. Sooner or later the supplies will run out and they’ll die. It’s not now, it won’t ever be. It doesn’t matter. 

“Not like this, Theon. Do you hear me?” 

Theon shrugs. 

“Not with you sitting there and offering your… your services like some kind of…” Jon groans. “It’s not silk I want to feel under my hands.”

Theon holds his breath as Jon’s hand on his chest moves lower, down to the hem of the tunic and beneath, and then Jon is touching him, letting his fingers graze all the ridges and scars littering every inch of Theon’s stomach, finally resting on his chest again. Skin on skin. 

“Now’s not the time,” Jon says again, sounding very near. Theon tilts his head to the side, looking into Jon’s eyes. So full of warmth. Jon smiles. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t think of you.”

He closes the distance, just a soft grazing of lips, but it feels like a promise. Theon slowly raises his hand, placing it over Jon’s. Not now. But maybe someday.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Theon. Jon is right, listen to him. What do you think?


End file.
